


For those Below

by Mad_Max



Series: For Those Below AU [2]
Category: Les, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Ratings: R, Recreational Drug Use, last bit of summary from nothing-rhymes-with-ianto ty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Max/pseuds/Mad_Max
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone had told him that the cab he hailed after storming out of his grandfather's house would serve to introduce him to the world of crazy that are Courfeyrac's friends, Marius would probably have hailed it anyway. Because Courfeyrac's friends, despite the obvious friction between Enjolras and Grantaire, Bahorel's propensity to speaking in his outside voice, Joly's nagging and the danger lurking round every corner in the form of a well-dressed thug called Montparnasse, are probably the best friends he's ever had. They're also the only friends he's ever had, but Marius isn't being picky. They did rescue him from homelessness, after all.  But there’s something wrong with some of them, and Grantaire is the darkest person he’s ever met. Grantaire, who hardly seems to be there at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A very artistic re-enactment of the Old Testament

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my very first actual Les Mis fic (not a drabble), and I'm ridiculously out of practice with writing in English and just akjhgjdgjh. Still getting the hang of characterisations, so any critique is more than welcome!

Looking back on it, Marius decides, he could probably have handled the entire situation better. What had begun as a slightly annoying and much too loud attempt on his grandfather's behalf to help him decide on his future had turned into a shouting match of epic proportions, with the old man hovering before his favourite chair like an incensed ghost of Christmas Present and Marius in the doorframe, hands balled into fists. 

 

"My father never studied business, either, and he was - " Marius had begun, only to be cut off by a wild swing of his grandfather's cane and an animalistic snarl the likes of which he hadn't known the man to be capable of. 

 

"Your father was a communist, Reagan-hating liberal bastard!" had been his grandfather's response, and that was the death of the few ounces of matter Marius had previously been able to call his common sense. 

 

Charging into his attic bedroom, he had thrown whatever was in arm's reach into a backpack, broken open his piggy bank, stuffed the wad of cash into his back pocket, and exited with a middle finger thrust firmly in the air, a pair of brilliantly red cheeks and a panted, half-strangled cry of, "Fuck Ronald Reagen and the Republican party! Long live Mao Zedong!" 

 

Yes, he thinks, his glassy, blue eyes raking over the mismatched bundle of wrinkled t-shirts, socks, underwear and Ironman action figures bulging through the broken zipper of his bacpack; yes, he could probably, definitely have handled that better. 

 

The intensity of his own rage thrills him regardless. 

 

His grandfather's face as he left, those enraged eyes bulging, round stomach sucked flat in pure shock - at any other time, he would have paid dearly to see the old man shut up so soundly, so brilliantly. Even now, in the face of sudden homelessness and financial instability, Marius can barely bite back the wide grin that threatens to split his face in half. Granted, he is sitting in a taxi with no destination and little more than three hundred dollars in his pocket. And yes, he has no friends to call on for help. He has no other family to fall back on. It is an admittedly precarious situation and one that would have sent the Marius of yesterday to sulk in his room, but the Marius of today is thrilled. He grins. He laughs in the face of danger. He even, in a fit of inspiration, begs the taxi driver to make a pit stop at a convenience store so that he can buy himself a pack of cigarettes. 

 

It matters not at all that he has never smoked before in his life, no - what matters is that the Marius of today is a smoker. He is a rebel of the likes of James Dean, all white t-shirt and Levi's and Marlboros rolled into his sleeves, staring moodily into the sideview mirror and watching his fingers coolly lift the brown tip of the cigarette to his lips before dropping it suddenly in a panic and moving to roll the window up as the driver begings to shout something about no smoking in his taxi, goddammit. 

 

So, he settles for staring intently at the grimy facade of the building next to them, the red light they are stuck at, the scuffs he acquired on the toes of his leather shoes on the way down his grandfather's front stoop. His hands are clammy, he realises suddenly, sparing a glance at the moist pack of cigarettes he had been clutching in them. Just as he moves to wipe them on the knees of his jeans, the door of the taxi swings open violently, and Marius finds himself smashed against the far window while a loud, laughing voice defeans his right ear, calling for the driver to head off in the direction of Union Square. 

 

"We'll have to pick up something to eat before the me - " begins the voice again before inhaling sharply; large, warm brown eyes blink back into his own, crinkling at the edges against the crack of an impossibly wide grin, and the voice booms, "Oh, hello! We seem to have hijacked your taxi!"

 

He could kick them out and carry on in the direction of nowhere. Or shrug and brush it off, because can you really hijack something that was drifting aimlessly, to begin with? He could introduce himself, thinks Marius quickly. Or smile. Or respond in any way. He settles instead for stuffing the packet of cigarettes into his jeans, his teeth clenched in a grimace, cheeks flooding with warmth. 

 

"Are you a tourist?" 

 

Another voice snakes its way around the wide-mouthed, jovial creature at Marius's side. "I know you," says the second voice, leaning into view. His shiny, brown head gleams with sweat that he swipes at and wipes down the front of his t-shirt. "You're Pommercy! You were in my Comp II class; I leant you my book once for the book check!" 

 

"Pontmercy," corrects Marius automatically, wringing his hands. "Er, Marius. And thanks again, I guess."

 

"Lesgle. My friends call me Bossuet," Lesgle somehow manages to extend his hand through the crook of his beaming friend's elbow for Marius to shake. "No problem. I forget my own books so often, I was hoping karma'd return the favour sometime for a good deed." 

 

"It won't," cuts in the first voice cheerfully, extending his own hand. "I'm Courfeyrac. You can call me Courfeyrac, and excuse me for prying - or really, don't excuse me, I'm curious by nature and not sorry - but are you going camping?"

 

It is Marius's turn to beam; the thrill of his afternoon's adventures surges through his veins as he holds out the backpack that Courfeyrac had gestured. "I ran away from home," he says proudly. "And now I'm living in this taxi, until I can find somewhere else to go, so, by all means, hijack away." 

 

Courfeyrac's hands on his shoulder are too warm and moist with sweat, and the taxi itself is stifling, but Marius can do little more than grin dazedly as his new friends direct the driver to a second address. Courfeyrac, leaning back, sighs in contentment and says fondly, "You'll love my place, Marius. Everyone does. And I get a five percent discount when I bring in new lodgers, so it's perfect."

 

 

The place in question turns out to be a dingy, cramped hostel (auberge de jeunesse, insists Courfeyrac in mock-offence, tugging him through the open doorway). For twenty five dollars and twelve cents a night, Marius is granted a creaky twin bed in Courfeyrac's double bedroom, a key card, a coupon for a free continental breakfast and the code to the hostel's free wifi (slow and kicks you off every five minutes, but beggars can't be choosers for twenty five dollars a night, says Courfeyrac, clapping him on the back). It could have been a crackhouse, for all Marius cares; more importantly, it's his (for as long as his money lasts), and he thanks Courfeyrac profusely as the other tosses a pile of t-shirts onto his bed to make place for Marius's clothes in the single dresser they are to share. 

 

"Don't thank me until you've had the screambled eggs for breakfast," Courfeyrac warns, but Marius, mid-way through opening his laptop, doesn't hear him. 

 

Not wanting to be a bother to his more than gracious host, Marius finds a quiet corner of the hostel common room to settle down in with his laptop and untouched packet of cigarettes. His plans, which mostly include browsing aimlessly through his tumblr dashboard and making excuses not to go outside and attempt another smoke, are shot to hell twenty three hours in, when Courfeyrac pulls up outside of the convenience store he has been loitering in front of with an unlit cigarette clutched firmly in his left hand, rolls down the window of the taxi he's hired and shouts, "Get in, bitch. We're going shopping."

 

"We're actually going to a party in your honour," Courfeyrac explains helpfully once Marius has buckled himself into the backseat with a mumbled protest about lacking the necessary funds. "And since you have no friends, I'm going to introduce you to mine." He swivels around from where he is perched in the passenger's seat, peering at Marius through the headrest with one of his trade-mark beams. "This - " his hand nearly collides with the driver's nose, extending to point at a lanky, bored-looking black kid in a pair of violently plaid pants, "is Bahorel, the loveliest bastard you'll ever meet." 

 

The plaid-wearing bastard addressed as Bahorel grins crookedly, swiping a hand through his short mohawk before offering it to Marius. "Fuck you, Courfeyrac," he sneers, but his lips twist into a begrudging smile when Courfeyrac blows him a kiss and directs Marius's attention to the scowling red-head wedged between them. 

 

"Feuilly," grunts the redhead, reaching across Courfeyrac's outstretched fingers to snatch the cigarette he keeps behind his ear. "And don't look at me like that; you owe me like five packs by now."

 

"Real friends don't keep count," sniffs Courfeyrac with mock-derision, then brightens again, a new cigarette already in place. "Anyways, guys, this is Marius."

 

"No shit," snorts Bahorel. 

 

"Oh, really?" Feuilly raises an eyebrow. 

 

Courfeyrac's sigh is defeaning and pelts him with warm, moist air as he leans further into the back to flick Feuilly's forehead and snatch up the stolen cigarette. "Don't listen to these idiots, Marius," he says in a stage whisper, winking conspiratorially. "They're bad examples of my friends, anyway. All the cool ones are already at Enjolras's having fun without us."

 

The first "cool friend" that shakes his hand is a tall, serious-looking guy who polishes his glasses with an actual glasses cloth while Courfeyrac complains about the poor company in their taxi. "Combeferre," he says softly, and steps casually to the left to avoid being trampled by Bahorel, who gallops into the hall beyond with a war cry to tackle someone out of sight. 

 

Marius is affronted by Joly's panicked cries from where he is pinned beneath Bahorel's plaid-covered knees before he can catch a sight of the red nose and wide, blue eyes, but his hellos are cut short by Courfeyrac's insistent hand at his elbow as he is lead from the dark, polished mahogany entrance hall and into the kitchen. They cut around a stainless steel fridge that looks to have seen better days (namely, ones in which it had not been molested by tens of grimy, beer-slicked hands - "Fridge doors are like petri dishes for staphylococcus!" screams Joly from under Bahorel's thigh) and almost stumble into what, had it not been almost entirely concealed by about fifteen long rows of shot glasses filled with something red (the empty wine bottles strewn across the counter speak volumes), could possibly be a kitchen table. Half-hidden by the mess, a skinny, scruffy-looking boy glares out at them from beneath a mop of tangled black hair, his blue eyes glassy in a way that signifies to Marius that this is probably not his first round of drinks. Probably not even the second, come to think of it. 

 

He throws them a lopsided grin that misses its target entirely and ends up directed at the corner of the fridge instead, his nostrils flared in concentration as he presses his hands into the middle of the shot glass assembly and announces to no-one in particular, "Enjolras said I'm not allowed into his father's liquor stash anymore, so I went for the wine. I'm re-enacting the Old Testament in his honour."

 

"Turning water into wine?" inquires Courfeyrac distractedly, leaning down to sniff at one of the glasses. 

 

"No, that's the New Testament, you twat." His hands begin to separate from one another, forcing the glasses into two equal groups along the table before snatching up a few and knocking them back in rapid procession. When he grins at them, Marius notices, wincing slightly, his teeth are stained red and a dribble of wine is making good time from the corner of his mouth to his chin. " _Moses parting the Red Sea._ " 

 

He cannot help but imagine the horror his aunt would have felt upon discovering this creature, with his red mouth and ruddy face, in her own kitchen, but Courfeyrac pats the sharp jut of a shoulder bone poking out from beneath a threadbare black t-shirt with a fond sigh. "There's probably no point introducing you two yet, as you'll have forgotten all about this in about four hours, but for Marius's sake - " Two rows of glasses are depleted the time it takes the creature to roll his eyes. "Marius, Grantaire, who will probably get himself kicked out soon enough, so take the time to get to know him now while I get us something to drink."

 

Any inclinations to protest being left alone with Grantaire die in his throat as Courfeyrac ambles off. For his part, Grantaire has worked his way through a goodly portion of the wine and adopts an awkward reclining pose against the wall that looks utterly excrutiating despite his vague grin. "So, you're the stray cat Courf found in his taxi," he offers. 

 

"Er, I'm Marius, yes." What was that about a stray cat? Grantaire's eyes slide down the length of the sweatshirt Courfeyrac had leant him, taking in his scuffed shoes and the bulge of the cigarettes he still hasn't been able to work up the nerve to actually smoke in his front pocket. "I, ah - " A crash and a muffled curse save him the trouble of a further response, and he swings his head around just in time, mentally singing praises to every God in the history of Gods for the interruption, to catch Courfeyrac stumbling over a tastefully striped couch cushion, bottle of Jack Daniels in hand. 

 

"No," says Courfeyrac pointedly, and Grantaire returns to sulkily downing the remainder of his wine with a grumble that sounds suspiciously like 'commie bastard'. "Democratic socialist, excuse you. And here, Marius, grab a glass and a can of Coke from the fridge, while - _no you don't, you miserable asshole, I had to swear on my mother's grave that I wouldn't give you any before I was allowed to have this!"_

"Fuck you, your mom lives in Perth Amboy!" 

"And I'd like to keep it that way, so get your grimy paws off!" 

Somewhere between Grantaire's pointy elbow and the deluge of profanity from Courfeyrac's wide mouth as his head is held against the fridge door, Marius manages to grab himself a can of Coke and the bottle of whisky and make a hasty escape. He picks his way carefully through an impromptu game of poker fanned across the floor beside the staircase ("That was a royal flush, motherfuckers; you know nothing about poker!" Joly has to duck beneath Bossuet's elbow to avoid taking one of Bahorel's heavy-soled shoes to the face), sipping absently from the can while his eyes adjust to the dim light of what appears to be a living room. For all the grandeur of his grandfather's antique mahogany furniture and heavily papered walls, Marius can't help but suck in a breath of surprise as he examines the rest of the ground floor of the brownstone. 

Do people actually live like this? The ceilings rise to a vault that curves elegantly down to connect with the far wall and massive, curved window. A pair of silver bookends gleam from opposite ends of a line of titles in a language Marius can't make heads nor tales of atop the mantlepiece and - oh holy hell - wads of fifty dollar bills and more colourful, foreign currencies are actually spilling haphazardly from a bowl on the antique coffee table. A hand so pale it practically glows in the dim light cards through them distractedly, and Marius, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the light, follows the line of a well-cut button down, through a nest of wild, blond curls and into the sharpest pair of blue eyes he has ever seen before in his life. 

"You're Marius." 

Something about the blond's stiff posture, or perhaps his piercing gaze, or even the fact that he is lounging on a sofa, looking utterly bored, with his right hand knuckle-deep in a bowlful of money, says that this is Enjolras, the party's host. A very unwilling, displeased host, now that the shock of an actual bowl of money has worn off enough for Marius to take a closer look at him. If the party had been one of his own ideas, the blond - Enjolras - does an admirable job of hiding it. 

"Enjolras." He bends slightly at the waist to extend his hand. 

"Marius," repeats Marius blankly, ignoring the little voice at the back of his head that chides him for repeating something that Enjolras clearly already knows. Enjolras, Marius is certain, probably knows a lot of things. Things like Marius's name, for example, and the amount of cash currently spilling from the bowl that he has yet to withdraw his hand from and the fact that Grantaire has lit up in his kitchen (this, to be fair, is announced to all of them in the form of Courfeyrac threatening to toss Grantaire from the window if he does not take his sorry ass - and his cigarette - outside stat). 

It would probably say volumes about Enjolras's fairness or his down-to-earthness or whatever else that he only inclines his head and shakes Marius's hand with the smallest of smiles rather than acknowledge the fact that his brain seems to have turned to mash potato, and Marius would appreciate that, really, if his brain was not currently caught up in the process of puréeing itself. Making a point to appreciate that tomorrow, he drops his hands to his side, raises it again to consider taking a sip of Coke, decides against it, and drops his hand again, his cheeks flushing. 

Enjolras follows the path of his gaze down to the table between him, where the transluscent skin of his hand stands out like a beacon against the deeper green of a hundred dollar bill. 

"My father empties his pockets into these bowls every time he stops by." 

"Oh." 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he withdraws his hand from the bowl and turns to stare at Marius as though he has never seen a human being before. His tone is stiff, clipped, as he continues: "No man should ever have so much money that he forgets about what anyone else would consider small fortunes balled up in his suit jacket and tosses them into some ridiculously overpriced decoration bowl like normal people do with their small change." If disgust had a face, he decides, it would look a lot like Enjolras's. The same curved, pink lips, wild hair and straight nose, which wrinkles suddenly in response to an ominous sloshing sound from the kitchen. It's all Marius can do to keep from stumbling over his own two feet as Enjolras pushes past him, marble cheeks reddening, and snarls, "That idiot is going to destroy the entire house," before bolting into the archway leading into the kitchen, where a dazed-looking Courfeyrac sways, staring into an empty wine bottle. 

What follows is a series of alarming crashes, the smack of what could very well have been someone's hand across the back of Grantaire's head, and an earl-splitting howl of, "Ow - ah - I am the capitoul and the master of the floral games!" 

Sliding into Enjolras's recently occupied place on the couch, Marius shakes his head helplessly. In all the lonely, boring years spent watching his aunt knit and cowering before his grandfather's cane, he had often taken the time to dwell on the idea of friends. He had imagined them all to be, well, very much like he was himself. Thoughtful, somewhat shy - a direct contrast to the boom of Bahorel's laugh as he ruffles the hair of a slender blond boy in a lurid pink sweatshirt, the very opposite of Courfeyrac's boisterous shouts of support for Enjolras, who, from the sound of it, is attempting to bodily remove an unwilling Grantaire from his kitchen ("You turned it into a massive ashtray!" "It was the will of God!" "For fuck's sake, Grantaire, you ashed your cigarettes across the entire counter!" "Mortal, do not question the ways of the Lord!"); these are the types of friends his grandfather would probably revel in, that his aunt would balk at, and, leaning as deep into the surprisingly soft cushions of the couch as he can, Marius can not help but grin through the pleasant flush of warmth that floods his cheeks at the sight of them. 

The flush drains quickly, however, when Grantaire flings himself, red-faced and puffing, onto the couch at his side. 

"Jesus Christ, Enjolras," he whines, but is cut off by the pillow Courfeyrac slams over his face. 

"You don't believe in Jesus Christ, Grantaire," he admonishes in sing-song. 

Grantaire snarls at him, but ploughs on unperturbed a moment later in the same obnoxious, carrying tone, "Holy fucking way to be an asshole Batman." His eyes search Courfeyrac's broad face for approval, which is given in the form of a light flick to the forehead. 

Courfeyrac, falling into Grantaire's lap with a groan, says authoritatively, "Better. Carry on." 

"As I was saying," grunting, he struggles to pull himself into an upright position from beneath Courfeyrac's deadweight, "you can't just strut into the kitchen in the middle of a very serious Bible reenactment, interrupting me in the middle of said reenactment, and - _holy shit, that is not real money!_ " 

It is a close call, but ultimately Courfeyrac succeeds in slapping his friend's hands away from the bowl while Enjolras settles in a huff atop the armrest. Had the full force of those piercing blue eyes been settled on him with such utter disdain, Marius cannot help but think, he would have been halfway to Albequerque by now. Grantaire, on the other hand, seems to lack any of that somewhat important stuff the poets - or whoever - call "a will to live", for no sooner has Enjolras adjusted his position on the armrest has he taken back up the abandoned train of thought in an even louder, high-pitched whine than Marius had thought possible. 

"But yeah!" His eyes are unfocused and glazed as he reaches to sling an arm around Marius's shoulders, and his breath reeks of wine. "I'll have you know, I was doing an incredibly artistic rendition of Moses parting the Red Sea. I could have been selling tickets to that. I would have won Tonys for that, Enjolras, and you don't just walk on stage during a Tony-award winning production and interrupt because of silly things like, _oh I don't know_ , a bit of ash on a kitchen counter. No - " He thrusts the palm of his hand into Enjolras's face and, to Marius's surprise, is obeyed. "No, I am speaking now, and where was I? Yes, exactly - did anyone ever run in and stop a production of Henry VIII just because of a few flames? Absolutely fucking not. And I'd like to think the Globe was a little more valuable to some than your monument-to-the-1%-money-hanging-out-of-glass-bowls-like-fucking-spaghetti old brownstone, and they didn't interrupt, because that was art. They let that fucker burn down. That was art, and I am an artist, and what's more - " 

"Grantaire - " 

"Grantaire is not available, please leave a message after the beep. Beep. Fuck you. Anyway, it's not like I was the only one trashing your kitchen, you arrogant tit. And I'll have you know, I fully object to playing the Polyneices to Courfeyrac's Eteocles. I fully object. I never even liked Antigone. I thought it was boring as shit from Sophocles and barely tolerable from Anouilh. So, there, objection. Objection sustained." - he winces at the impact of his own fist against his kneecap - "This is a free country - sort of - and I'm a minority, so I have rights." 

"Being Jewish does not count as a minority in New York, Grantaire." 

"Extra rights. And those rights include not being thrown out onto the street to have my eyes picked at by carrion for doing something that _everyone else_ was doing, just because I'm louder, or cooler, or have a more demanding stage presence, or you need to make an example of someone, or whatever else. And - no, Courfeyrac, personal space. Respect it. You can't shut me up like it'll wash the guilt from your hands of having encouraged - I repeat, for dramatic effect, _encouraged_ \- him to physically assault me in defence of an inaminate object. Is a counter even an inanimate object? How are we defining inanimate objects here? Webster's or Oxford? Some would argue that it's more of a wall fixture, and I might agree, though that probably depends on how it's attached. Anyway, is this not all a violation of the Geneva Convention? I didn't even get a fair trial. And the death sentence is illegal in most of the industrialised Western nations you wank off to when you think you're alone, so you can wipe that if-looks-could-kill glare right off your face, Enjolras. I am an ideal, and that ideal is freedom and free love. You cannot kill an ideal. And if you did, you'd probably be violating the Geneva Convention again - for the second time in one night, which must be a record somewhere, look it up - " 

"Grant- _aire_ \- " 

"What did you, buy a year-long subscription to my name? Stop it. Your intonation is all off. And I told you to get your hands off me, Courfeyrac; I'm not done yet. You - " his finger nearly brushing the tip of Enjolras's nose, he thrusts a hand into Marius's stomach to support himself and rises to his knees on the edge of the couch, sending Courfeyrac flying, " - you wouldn't even let me touch your liquor while everyone else - and you're damn right I am going to make use of repetition as a literary device again, because this is important - _everyone else_ \- got to have whatever they wanted. Where is the equality in that, I ask? Everyone can drink Jack Daniels and Graygoose, but Grantaire is downgraded to wine? Grantaire has to make due with a vintage 1994 and be thankful for it, because Grantaire is lucky to have been invited at all. Grantaire is Archias abandoned to the mercy of the courts because Cicero was too busy egging Enjolras on - in violation of basically every syllable of the Geneva Convention, I will have your heads for that - and fuck Grantaire, basically. If he gets kicked out of the party, it's his own fault for not fitting in. Forget friendship. Obliviate - what's comraderie? How's that for solidarity? You're a terrible communist, Courfeyrac. You should be ashamed of yourself." 

Silence falls like an iron curtain across the room as Grantaire's speech comes to an abrupt halt and he fall backs, coughing furiously, onto Marius's lap. 

"We're not," huffs Courfeyrac indignantly, patting himself down as he rises to his feet, "communists. No one here is a communist. We are - " 

"I'm a communist." 

Almost as soon as the words part his lips, Marius regrets them. The air in Enjolras's parlour goes taught under the tug of seven sharply inhaled breaths. To their credit, Enjolras and Grantaire are still glaring at one another, entirely unfazed, but they are the only ones. Even Combeferre has managed to somehow apparate himself to hover over the armrest to Marius's left, and he is struck suddenly by the throbbing bore of fourteen eyes into his own forehead. 

"Er," he begins cautiously, clearing his throat. "I mean, what could be better than pure equality? Distribution of property? No one's rich and no one's poor - Utopia à la Marx?" 

It's Combeferre who speaks, his hand pausing to rest only briefly on Marius's shoulder as he polishes his glasses with the other: "The freedom to choose for one's self," he says simply, then turns on his heel, makes a pit-stop into the kitchen for a bottle of spring water and climbs back up the stairs to his own bedroom. 

The party pretty much dissolves itself after that, with Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel, the blond in the pink sweatshirt (who hastily introduces himsels as Jehan before bolting down the front stoop) and Joly taking off in the direction of 96th St station, while Courfeyrac buzzes through the kitchen to tidy up at least a little bit before calling a cab for Marius and himself. Marius strikes a stiff, uncomfortable pose beside the couch, his hands crossed over his chest, teeth working viciously gainst the sides of his cheeks while he watches Enjolras begrudgingly spread a blanket over the sleeping heap of holey t-shirt and tangled hair that is Grantaire. 

Everything has gone to shit; of this Marius is certain. He should never have opened his horrible, massive mouth. There are probably rules about talking politics at parties, or confessing to be a communist at parties, or any and all of the above. Hell, there are probably rules about being Marius at parties, and he has broken all of them. None of Courfeyrac's friends will want to have him back after this. Why would they want to have him back? 

But then, Grantaire, waking briefly to wave goodbye, says, "G'night, Mar... rus. Don' let these commies bring ya down." 

And even Enjolras, guiding him to the door with a hand at the small of his back, nods in farewell and offers them the smallest of smiles. 

Well then, thinks Marius, head pressed against the cool of the taxi window as he watches the darkened street drift past them, things could certainly have gone a lot worse.  



	2. Sunday morning coming down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not Grantaire's sofa, but it is is (probably, unfortunately) his puke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all for the lovely/amazing responses and kudos! That really made my day. I hope this doesn't disappoint?
> 
> Though, I must say, I'm feeling really nervous about this chapter. It sort of took on its own direction, not at all like I'd planned, and just, yeah - no idea.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, if anyone would be interested in beta-ing for this, I'm in desperate need!

His mouth feels like it was inhabited by piss-covered rats overnight. 

 

Angry, fat, shedding rats. Drenched in piss. With nail extensions to rival any chonga's. His throat burns, and his tongue is hair and about six times too big, and his teeth feel like they've been brushed with olive oil. He cracks an eyelid open, groaning, and imagines that the rats crawled through his sinus cavities to chew out his brain after growing bored of peeing on his tongue. 

 

It's actually a disgusting fantasy.

 

Almost as disgusting as the puddle of crusty vomit on his chest. 

 

Dripping down the side of the couch. A couch that is not his. 

 

Jolting awake, Grantaire blinks and flops onto his side to give his surroundings a closer look. Apart from the vomit and the stain of his own presence on the otherwise spotless, velvet sofa, the room is pristine. Beyond. Like, Martha Stewart Living Deluxe beyond. Mahogany and platinum and marble beyond. He closes his eyes, digging the balls of his hands into them until he sees stars. If he's broken into someone's house, he's fucked. More than fucked. Considering the fact that his stomach feels like it's been used to demonstrate the dicing power of the Magic Bullet, he can basically consider himself lucky if he manages to sit up without puking or passing out, or both. 

 

Oh, God. 

 

Whoever owns this house is going to find him passed out with his own puke on his chest, dribbling down his chin. The police will arrest him like that. He'll spend the night in prison like that, too ashamed to use his call on any of his friends. He'll have to walk home like that. He'll stand fully-clothed under his shower like that (cold, because he hasn't paid the bills since Moses parted the Red Sea). 

 

Oh. 

 

_Oh._

_  
_Well, fuck. Major fuck. Think: Napoleon realising Russia was a really bad idea fuck; Franz Ferdinand deciding a trip to Sarajevo was a _capital idea_  fuck and Noah's neighbour realising about five years too late that he shouldn't have been such an ass about that one olive tree that was bordering on his favourite hedge, because  _there's no room on the boat for that level of petty douchenozzelry_ fuck. 

 

It suddenly matters a lot less that he might puke, that his mouth has been invaded by rats and the taste of piss in the night, that his head might actually split open like a coconut at any given moment because  _light_ ; Grantaire is on his feet before he can question his own equilibrium. Said equilibrium (or lack thereof), on the other hand, is only too happy to make itself known. The second time, he remembers to grab at the back of the sofa for balance, and this works better, so he sticks with it. He is a creature of successful habits. Clutching the sofa like it's the only thing stopping him floating up into the ceiling like Charlie and Grandpa Joe, dragging himself across the thick, Persian carpet. Trying not to puke.  _Trying_ being the key word here. At least he manages to hold it out until the kitchen, until the impossibly deep, stainless steel sink swims into view and then back out as his eyes begin to tear up from the force of his heaves. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he splashes his face with a palmful of cold water and waits for the shaking, empty, dead feeling in his chest to abate, for the bile to slide back down his throat and into his stomach to torment him further. 

 

Something shiny catches his eye, and Grantaire, ignoring the stabbing sensation behind his pupil, leans foreward to squint at the label of a tall, glass bottle that has taken it upon itself to channel every, last ray of sunlight from the open window into the otherwise dim kitchen. It's neither water, nor painkillers, nor the poison he'd actually prefer to have on his person once the owner of the brownstone wakes up to discover the dried-up evidence of Grantaire's overnight stay on his couch, but it will do. He stumbles unsteadily to the fridge, struggling only briefly with the door, to grab a half-empty bottle of spring water; empties it in a single gulp, becausea day in which he actually made zero good choices would be too pathetic for the shreds of his self-esteem to handle at this point, and then promptly projectile vomits onto the wall. Luckily, it's almost only water now. 

 

Once he has managed to shakily tip the contents of the glass bottle into his empty water bottle (the amount of vodka that goes to waste in this process would probably have been enough to damn his sorry soul for all eternity, if he wasn't going to hell already), he allows himself a moment to fall, panting, into an uncomfortable, straight-backed chair. The stench of vodka on his sleeve and the curls of smoke from his lit cigarette are enough to turn his stomach all over again. It is with no small amount of reluctance that he stubs the cigarette out against a crumpled Coke can and rise again to his feet.

 

A glance at the kitchen clock tells him both that everything he reads for the next three or so days will swim around on the page like that one rainy bit in Winnie the Pooh, and also that it is six thirty in the morning. On a Sunday. Which means that Enjolras is probably still asleep. Which means that he should probably buy a lottery ticket today with all this luck, because all he has to do is crawl to the door, fall down the front steps, lay in a pathetic, groaning heap for about four minutes and forty-two seconds on the sidewalk in front of said steps, and then he is a free man. Which means, if he is being honest with himself, that he will most likely be spending the day sprawled out in the shade in Central Park, hopeing desperately that the police won't mistake him for a drunken bum again and try to send him on his way. And that's only slightly more pathetic and much less terrifying than the image of Enjolras's face when he catches sight of his living room or realises that Grantaire has made off with the last of the Graygoose. 

 

Feeling much lighter for the combination of these revelations and the fact that he has basically regurgitated his stomach into the kitchen sink, he makes a beeline (re: extremely clumsy, crooked half-crawl that leads him first into the side of the fridge and then into the wall) for the front door. If he were capable of anything but suffering, groaning and heaving, he might have stopped to consider how humiliating this situation had become, or the fact that his drinking has reached such a low that he is actually, guiltlessly committing petty theft in a friend's home, but Grantaire doesn't feel capable of anything, really, that is not suffering, groaning, heaving and perhaps vaguely despising the very notion of himself. So, he considers nothing but the blurry outline of the front door and the impossibly long stretch of polished wood floor between him and it. Trust Enjolras to live in the only house big enough to make a morning-after getaway an actual quest. 

 

Just as he is reaching for the doorknob, his stomach doing an impressively well-coordinated Irish jig, the door beneath the stairs bursts open with a bang, and Grantaire's brain immediately gives up on the whole 'staying in touch with reality' spiel as he imagines one of Enjolras's house-elves accosting him loudly, waking Enjolras - and that's foolish, actually, because Enjolras would have been a member of S.P.E.W. and therefore unlikely to own house-elves, and jesus fuck he must still be drunk (terrifying, if this means that he has yet to experience his oncoming hangover in full-force), because this is not Harry Potter and the woman who drops her laundry in shock at the sight of him is so, completely not a house-elf.

 

She's actually fairly attractive, for someone old enough to have been his mother. Not that he's looking.

 

In fact, he's not looking. He can't raise his head between the unrelenting force of the dry heaves that her sudden arrival have shocked into him, and he is so fucked and he can't remember having taught his brain to play the drums, but it's pounding at them now, or maybe that's the blood in his ears. Her hand on his back feels nice. Warm.

 

"Come into the kitchen, sweetheart," she says softly, as if she  _knows_ that his ears are pounding, and his head is actually splitting open, and he can't calm the spasms in his stomach long enough to correct her. Because if there is anything that Grantaire is not, it is a sweetheart. Drunk, useless, incredibly witty, host to piss-covered-rat slumber parties - yes. Check. All of the above.  

 

He allows her to lead him back into the kitchen anyway, to dab at his forhead and the back of his neck with a cold washcloth like his mother used to do when he was home sick with a fever. He does not allow himself to enjoy it. Won't. 

 

"You need a shower," she says, staring hard at the crusts of wine and regurgitated pizza on his t-shirt, and there is something stirringly familiar in those golden-brown eyes. "I'll wash your clothes. You can borrow some of my son's; he's taller, but you just need something comfortable to lie down in. Come here." 

 

Not sure if he can trust his stomach to behave around an open mouth, Grantaire allows her to support him from the room in utter silence. His cheeks prickle briefly as she braces an arm around his back to half-carry, half-propel him up the stairs and into a stark, marble bathroom. In any other state, he would protest at being man-handled thusly, at being helped out of his t-shirt and stained jeans. But, she completes the task briskly, folding his clothes into a tight wad and turning on the water for him before closing the door behind her. 

 

She says, "I'll be back in five minutes. Just try and stay seated in the tub and let the water wash over you." 

 

As if he could do anything but. 

 

Grantaire has to admit to himself - begrudgingly - that the rivulets of lukewarm water across his back and face are actually marvellous. Yawning as his head begins to clear, he clutches the sides of the tub with both hands for balance and manages to position himself directly beneath the running faucet. 

 

It is in this position, hands gripping the tub, underwear soaked through, trying and failing to blow the sopping strands of hair from his sore eyes, that Combeferre finds him. 

 

Or rather, Combeferre stumbles in, hair sticking straight up, eyes swollen in a somewhat charming way that makes him look like a bleary five year-old, swears loudly, and then quickly stumbles back out. 

 

" _Grantaire_?" 

 

He lets himself fall onto his back, grunting, and croaks, "Give me another minute to decide if I feel like being Grantaire today." 

 

"Are you all right?" The door creaks open just a tad; he can make out the shadow of Combeferre's profile through the crack. 

 

"Urgh - no. I think I'll stick with sleeping and not being Grantaire today. Grantaire is dead. Grantaire feels like roadkill." 

 

"Hang on," says Combeferre through the door, "I'll get you a towel." 

 

He is attempting (unsuccessfully) to stand upright while drying himself off when the woman bursts back in with a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt that she claims should fit him. 

 

Combeferre glances up, blinking rapidly. "Mom?" 

 

"Morning, lovey." She kisses his cheek. "Perfect. You help your friend here get dressed and put him on the sofa in the library with a bucket while I clean off the couch." 

 

She is gone before either of them can get a word in, shouting something about laundry as she thunders down the stairs, and Grantaire wonders if decapitation would not be preferable to the rain of grape shot attacking his brain when Combeferre surprises him by tugging the t-shirt over his head. 

 

"Left foot," he says, tapping Grantaire's knee for him to lift his leg through the waist of the sweatpants. "Right. Good. Let's go." 

 

They make painstakingly slow progress across the narrow hall, stopping once so that Grantaire can dry heave over the bannister before Combeferre guides him to a much comfier sofa in a dim, quiet room decorated with wall-to-wall bookshelves and pictures of a smiling blond boy running a hand through a mop of blond curls at the beach, scowling at the side of a woman in a Burberry scarf who stares icily into the camera, peering curiously at the screen of a laptop while a lanky boy at his side re-adjusts the sit of his glasses. 

 

"Tha's you," moans Grantaire, pointing to the last photo. 

 

Combeferre's voice is soft and somewhat heavy in his ear as he helps him find a comfortable position between the downy cushions. "Yes." 

 

"Enj'l'ras," insists Grantaire, pointing again. 

 

"Yes." Combeferre settles a blanket across his lap with painstaking gentleness, dragging a black trash can from the corner to the side of the couch. "Enjolras, too. Try and keep your voice down and rest, so he doesn't wake up."  _He might actually kill you. Or both of us_. Combeferre doesn't say this, but Grantaire can read between the lines of his furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips as he steps back to regard the sad sight on the couch. "I'll bring you some water and a Tylenol in a minute. Try and sleep some more." 

 

He grumbles, at first, because he is Grantaire, and Grantaire never complies with anything that hasn't been preceded by a decent bout of grumbling. Heavy and prickling with heat, his eyes drift shut in protest, stilling the writhe in his lips; the grumbling fades to a murmur, sloppy and punctuated by little moans that cause the muscles in his face to contract, as though in pain. His mouth, for lack of anything better to do, begings to drool. By the time Combeferre has returned with a pill and a glass, he's asleep. 

 

* * * 

 

Grantaire's second awakening is an altogether more pleasant experience. 

 

For starters, he has basically been laid out on a cloud wearing a couch costume. 

 

And his stomach no longer feels like he chugged a bottle of Drain-o.

 

And his clothes - his entire body, come to think of it - are clean.

 

And Enjolras is speaking.

 

He is torn between shooting to the door to listen through the crack and practising the Olympic sport of lying-very-still-in-bed-so-the-landlord-doesn't-hear-he's-home, in which he holds every record. Tempting though the latter is (his landlord is bound to come knocking any day now; he could use the practise), Grantaire's burning curiosity concerning all things Enjolras will not be appeased by anything less than his ear at the keyhole. Not to mention, he is almost entirely certain that Enjolras has just uttered his name. 

 

No, make that a certain. Enjolras is speaking about him. 

 

He makes it from the sofa to the door in a single, record-timed roll that only slightly agitates every aching bone in his body, cheek protesting against the hard edge of the doorframe as he jams his face against it.

 

"But why is he sleeping in the library?" Enjolras's tone carries a dangerous edge, a sharpness that would have sent Grantaire swan-diving into a bottle had he been the addressat in this conversation and not Combeferre, who simply clears his throat and appears to have shifted from one foot to the other. 

 

Combeferre's patience is strained and forced, and Grantaire cannot help but wonder how many times he must have explained this already. "Because it's closer to the bathroom, and my mother thought it would be safer than having him vomit all over the velvet downstairs." 

 

"But, why is he here?"

 

"Because he fell asleep, and you covered him with a blanket rather than send him on his way?"

 

"Well, he can't stay in the library. I need to finish my analysis and work on the - "

 

"He's been asleep for over six hours, anyway." Grantaire can almost see the skin pooling around Combeferre's eyes as he squints into the grip of his right hand across the bridge of his nose. "It's probably for the best that he wakes up soon." 

 

A thump. Enjolras's sigh is razor-sharp, impatient. "Right." There is a muffled shuffling sound; his voice, when he next speaks, seems to come from further away, as though he has moved down the hall. "Tell him there's coffee in the kitchen, if he can promise to behave himself with - no, actually, tell him there is a thick, plastic to-go cup of coffee on the counter just for him. He can drink it on his way home."

 

"I," says Combeferre, his voice gradually fading, "am on my way out the door. Right now. I am going down the steps and to the subway, where I will catch a train down to the Village for my shift at the free clinic. You - " The word catches, as though he has ground to a halt somewhere far below, and Grantaire finds himself straining to catch the rest. "You can wake Grantaire for his coffee, or to expel him from your library, any time you like." 

 

He doesn't make it back to the couch in time before the door bursts open to reveal an impeccably-dressed and groomed Enjolras, arms crossed over his chest, eyes probing the room to settle on Grantaire, crouched half-way between the couch and the door with eyes like salad bowls. 

 

"What are you doing on the floor?"

 

"The real question here," he drawls, stumbling to his feet, "is: what are you doing wearing a button-up and  _ironed_ slacks on a Sunday, and if your answer is not 'for the brunch I'm about to invite Grantaire to' (Grantaire being me, brunch being the meal between breakfast and lunch that you are inviting me to), I am going to be sorely disappointed." He is vaguely aware of how ridiculous he must look, drowning in Combeferre's faded, too-long sweatpants and baggy t-shirt, but then, Grantaire can hardly recall a time when he did not look ridiculous. So, he's working with it. 

 

The knot between Enjolras's eyebrows looks painfully tight. "You vomited on my sofa." 

 

A lesser man would have blushed, but Grantaire manages to gulp down the yelp before it can spring from the back of his throat. "Yes." he drifts to the far wall, eager to put as much space between them in case Enjolras decides on a more hands-on approach to expressing his displeasure than the shade of a frown and stiff tone he's currently employing. "In my defence, there were political motivations at play there. I didn't just,  _you know_ , vomit on your couch. My body was hell-bent on revolution, and I guess if you can ignore the fact that puking is actually a pretty violent activity for all the organs involved, I think I'm within my liberties to suggest we pretend it was 1989 and your couch was Czechoslovakia, or maybe that was my body. Would that make your couch the government? Who came up with the name 'Velvet Revolution', to begin with?" His hands, for lack of anything better to do, rifle through a stack of papers on the bottom shelf nearest. Feigning a sudden, all-encompassing fascination for them, Grantaire ducks his head and forces his eyes out of focus over the creased, spartan skeleton of a contract dated 23 May 2009,  _Paris_ _._

 

"You drank six bottles of wine, ashed on my kitchen counter, turned the dining nook into a cigarette burial ground and vomited on my sofa," repeats Enjolras, alarmingly calm. 

 

"I did mostly clean up the dining nook," says Grantaire without looking up. Something about Enjolras's unusually placid countenance, his lack of pantomime and the way his eyes follow Grantaire from one end of the book shelve to the other makes his hair stand up on end. "And I told you that your refusal to grant me access to the liquor cabinet would bear drastic consequences. This isn't Major Kong riding a surprise atomic bomb all the way down to Russia, Enjolras. I don't think Paul Revere could have warned you any better than I did. I mean, what did you expect me to do - ration out a measly bottle to last the entire night?"

 

Enjolras is nearly nose-to-nose with him within a single, abrupt stride. Painfully sharp, his blue eyes pierce into the lids of Grantaire's own. "Are you drunk?" 

 

He finds himself pushing away despite (or because of) the almost irresistible pull to stay, draw nearer, drink in Enjolras's presence for as long as he has it. 

 

"I'm sorry." Shaking his head, Enjolras opens up the space between them with a jerk back into the sofa. He pinches the bridge of his nose, glare pointed at the stretch of floor directly before Grantaire's bare feet. "I hadn't - I just thought that it's a bit much. Even for you." 

 

Grantaire reads the contract. Taps his fingers against the polished oak of the bookshelf. Stares hard at the paper, at the words, at the creases, at everything but Enjolras and the lofty, pitying haze of concern that dampens the intensity of the blond's features for a moment before disappearing completely. He swallows; if he doesn't, there is a good chance of his heart jumping from his throat. So, he swallows again. 

 

"It  _is_ a lot," Enjolras insists. "Even for you, it was a lot. I've rarely seen you ill like that."

 

"You've rarely seen me after eleven o'clock," Grantaire cuts in, stashing the papers he had been reading into a gap between two books. "And you didn't see me ill. You were filled in by Combeferre, who has all his information second-hand from his mother, who - by the way, why the hell was Combeferre's mother cleaning your house?" 

 

"Jeannine lives downstairs," says Enjolras slowly, as if this were common sense; which, no, Grantaire would like to beg to differ, because, really, when is it common sense for your best friend's mother to live  _downstairs_ and clean and do laundry in your home? 

 

And then it hits him, dawns over his face, skewing his features. His mouth falling open, Grantaire shakes his head. "Wait, is Combeferre's mother your housekeeper?"

 

"No!" 

 

"Your best friend's mother is basically your live-in servant, despite the fact that you call yourself a commu - "

 

"Social democrat, for God's sake, Grantaire. At this point, I'm sure you mess that up on purpose, just to annoy us." 

 

"You know me so well. If I ever consider having a biography done, I'll make sure to call you." Scrunching his face into an over-exaggerrated smile, he sidesteps Enjolras to get to the door. If he is fast, Grantaire thinks, he can probably make it to the kitchen to collect his emergency water bottle before Enjolras realises what he's doing. "That Marion kid was a communist, though, wasn't he? Or was I drunker than I thought?" 

 

Enjolras's footsteps behind him pound into the steps like claps of thunder. "You _were_ drunker than you thought, but, yes, Marius is apparently a communist." 

 

Without pausing in his purposeful stride direction: kitchen, Grantaire tosses him a loose grin. "Planning on inviting him again anytime soon?" 

 

Enjolras's eyes on his are like ice picks, and it hurts, but he's a willing masochist. Anyway, the very idea of looking away seems almost sinful. 

 

"I just meant," Grantaire continues, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder as he rounds the archway into the kitchen, "forget it. Courfeyrac always had strange taste. I think at this point, he just plants himself in the middle of any moderately busy public place and blusters out a tune on his Ocarina app until the freaks show up."

 

"I'm going to assume that that's how he came across you." 

 

He snorts. "If by "Ocarina app" you mean bottle of discount rum and by "moderately busy public place" you mean the room I used to share with Feuilly when we lived in the - when we were seventeen, then, yes." 

 

"In the what?"

 

"So," shouts Grantaire, marginally more panicked than he would have liked. The volume and the crack in his voice draw Enjolras's eyes up from where they have been narrowing suspiciously in on the bottle he has collected from its hiding place between the fridge and the cupboard. He is too exhausted, far too sober for this conversation, for Enjolras's attention, for the fact that at least a half hour has gone by since Combeferre left for his shift. Half an hour in which Grantaire did a lot of the opening his mouth thing that usually gets him in trouble with Enjolras, or kicked out. And yet, here he is, and here is Enjolras, pouring himself a mug of black coffee like it it's the most natural thing in the world to be sharing his kitchen on a Sunday afternoon with a hungover Grantaire. 

 

He takes a deep swig from the water bottle, ignoring Enjolras's eyes on the back of his head as he turns to drop heavily onto a chair. "Tell me all about this contract," smirks Grantaire, sipping. 

 

Enjolras, for his part, looks entirely unruffled as he settles into the chair across from where Grantaire straddles his own. He sets his coffee onto the table and runs a hand through his hair. "Contract?"

 

"You know," Grantaire shrugs, stretching loudly, and takes another long, deep gulp. " _23 May, 2009, Paris_. Please tell me your mother did not actually have to pay you twenty-five hundred euro to spend ten days with her at her  _château_ in France." 

 

The hand that snatches his bottle away moves with inhuman speed and precision from the stretch of air just before Grantaire's open mouth and the gaping depths of the kitchen sink. He first notices that he has stood up as the space between them has been cleard once more, and he is jostling elbows with Enjolras for control of the bottle. 

 

Only after he has won and tipped out the remaining third of the bottle down the drain does Enjolras turn, his nostrils flared scrutinisingly, to pant at him: "My mother and I reached a deal. She promised to send the money to a cause of my choosing, and I got away with seven days alone in Paris, a lunch and two dinners." 

 

 

 

 


	3. Welly welly welly welly well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has a pleasant brunch, Enjolras is surprised, Marius and Courfeyrac go out to breakfast, and they all plan on meeting up at the Musain sometime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, first and foremost, for all the lovely responses and kudos! I really appreciate feedback of any kind. Truly makes my day. 
> 
> I feel really nervous about my Courfeyrac and Enjolras here. I've always had the most difficulty with them, so I hope it's OK.

 

"So," Grantaire has to sit down for this, or maybe it's the alcohol making his head spin all over again, "your mother paid you twenty-five hundred bucks to spend time with her, and Combeferre's mother is your housekeeper, and - "

 

"Jeannine is not our housekeeper," says Enjolras indignantly, rounding on him so that they are standing nose-to-nose for a moment, sharing the same hot, moist breath. The empty plastic bottle dangling from his fingers crackles against the side of his thigh. "She worked for my family for years in this house, yes. My father gave it to me after I graduated high school, and I signed the downstairs flat over to Jeannine. She doesn't work here; she lives in her own flat and comes up to make sure we're both doing all right." Jabbing the bottle into Grantaire's chest, he pushes past to tug out the recycling bin from under the sink. "And if you're staying for breakfast, Grantaire, you're going to drink nothing but water and coffee. One puddle of vomit on my sofa is quite enough, don't you think?"

 

His shrug is limp, more an uncoordinated twitch than a sign of acquiescence, but it's as much as Grantaire can manage without giving away the shake in his throat or the hammering in his chest on his way back over to the table. _For breakfast with Enjolras_. It's very possible that the past ten odd years' abusing cheap liquor have broken his mind without his having noticed. Enjolras not tossing him bodily into the street for being a mess and a loudmouth is almost believable, could be explained by Combeferre's gentle influence, or a freak electric current in the air, or a mild case of psychosis. But, Enjolras putting up with him much longer than necessary, eating with him, conversing with him - Grantaire should be alarmed, but his head is too busy imitating a slushee machine and his stomach is doing backflips, so he sits down and allows his face to relax into an inane grin. "Whatever."

 

"I'm serious, Grantaire." An only marginally more intense glare would have cracked the tabletop in two. As it is, Grantaire feels his cheeks bunching together beneath the corners of his eyes and coughs, ducking to hide the widening of his grin. "So much as a sip of anything that doesn't run from the tap or come out of the coffee machine, and you can walk yourself to the subway."

 

"I won't puke on any more of your furniture."

 

"I don't care about my furniture. My point is that you can't drink six bottles of wine in a night and follow up the next morning, after having been ill, with six shots of vodka."

 

"Well, I can," says Grantaire diplomatically, steepling his fingers. "I mean, I did."

 

Enjolras shakes his head, crossing again to the fridge for a box of Corn Flakes and a bottle of milk, which he slams onto the table between them with more force than necessary. "You can't," he repeats firmly, shoves a bowl and spoon in Grantaire's direction. "You are an idiot. You'll kill yourself."

 

There is a pause punctuated only by the spill of cereal into empty bowls, and then, one hand reaching for the milk, his eyes fixed tenderly, but with more intensity than they have all morning on Enjolras above a crooked smirk, he recites, "Nah. My life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it."

 

"Oh, very good." Enjolras seems torn between laughing and upending the milk in his face; Grantaire, who cannot help but notice that he pours his milk in first, raises an eyebrow. "You can paraphrase high school required reading. I suppose I should be glad to see that you haven't killed off every last cell in your brain yet, but you'll have to excuse me if my relief is short-lived."

 

"I'm glad to make you glad." He throws the words across the table with a shit-eating grin, spoon tracing lazy circles through a canal of milk between two clumps of soggy cereal. "I'd do anything for that, you know. I'd cut up my heart for you to wear, if you wanted it."

 

"Gone with the Wind is an undeservedly beloved representation of every injustice, every prejudice and every ounce of wrong committed by America on its own society in recent history. You have terrible taste in references."

 

"I forgot you're a social justice blogger." Slurping down the contents of his bowl, Grantaire stands. Why is he standing? Common sense had meant to direct him to the dishwasher, and then to his own clothes, so that he can make an escape before inevitably ruining what is turning out to be one of the most pleasant mornings he has had in weeks. But, Enjolras's eyes on his wrist as he chews and swallows a mouthful of Corn Flakes hold him, rooted to the spot. When are those eyes ever settled on any inch of his anatomy without looking as though they are about to burst into flame? Never, that's when. He falls back into his chair with a long-suffering sigh and reaches for the cereal box, for lack of a better cover. "But, apparently I'm a glutton for punishment and checking myself out in the mirror a few times a day just doesn't cover it, so trying again - "

 

Enjolras's spoon skids across the table, colliding with his chest, and clatters to the floor. "I have two response papers and an analysis of early 19th century European constitutions to write.” He manages to look vaguely regretful and intensely pleased and annoyed all at once. “But, if you can be quiet and promise not to ravage any more of my family’s liquor stash, I suppose it would be all right if you stayed.”

 

“It’s fine - ”

 

“No.” Are his cheeks actually flushing? “I mean, you just drank a lot - _again_ \- and you were sick all night; it would be irresponsible of me to make you ride the subway all the way downtown until you’ve had a chance to sober up.” Licking his lips, Enjolras stands, takes his bowl to the sink, and begins to rifle through a cupboard - all the while pointedly avoiding Grantaire’s dumbfounded gaze. “There’s a TV here, or you can read in the library,” he says nonchalantly, waving behind him as his occupied hand tugs at the dishwasher door. “I assume you’ll be at the Musain tonight, anyway, and I had planned on taking a cab to transport all the posters and picket signs, so you might as well save the money on a subway ticket and just ride down with me.”

 

This is a terrible idea. Every ounce of common sense he has ever possessed is screeching at him; there are reasons why Enjolras and Grantaire do not spend time together alone, why they - after nearly three years - have never become great friends. There are good reasons, important reasons, but Grantaire has a penchant for self-destruction; risks excite him. Tossing his own plate into the dishwasher with an exaggerated shrug, he sighs, “You are an absolutely fiendish Ursula. Do I have to give up my voice for the privilege, or did you have something else in mind?”

 

Enjolras shakes his head once, firmly, and turns to leave. Mid-way up the stairs on the way to the library, he spins again, nearly sending them both tumbling, his fingers tangling themselves in the baggy front of the borrowed t-shirt, and says softly, “You’d never speak about me or about any of the others as disdainfully as you do about yourself. It’s terrible, and - apart from vomiting on my sofa - you’ve been entertaining company, so I’m allowed to want to hang out with you and _enjoy that company_.” He shakes his head again, yanking Grantaire bodily over the landing after him before releasing his grip. “It’s not a privilege to be able to spend time with your friends, Grantaire.”

 

Squaring his shoulders, he disappears into the library, leaving Grantaire to stare after him, stunned (for the first time probably ever) into silence.

 

*****

 

Marius awakes to the slam of a dresser drawer and Courfeyrac singing along to the showtunes he has blaring from his iPhone.

 

“Urngh,” he groans, wiping a thread of drool from his chin.

 

“ _It’s the bitch of living_ ,” belts Courfeyrac in return, pelting him with a balled up pair of socks, “ _with nothing but your hand_!” He hops far too energetically from one end of the room to the other, picking up bits and pieces of his outfit at random and tossing the wrinkled clothes they left in a heap on the floor after Enjolras’s party onto Marius. “That part always reminded me of Grantaire.”

 

“What?”

 

Courfeyrac, rather than answer, shrugs, writhing into one of Marius’s t-shirts (a favourite from high school, with John Lennon’s face filled in by a question mark) and bounds to the bedside to yank the blankets down. “Get dressed. I’m inviting you to breakfast, and by ‘inviting you to breakfast’ I mean ‘it’s two-thirty in the afternoon and we are going to Dunkin’ Donuts because I have coupons’, so _up_ with you!”

 

It takes a good half an hour of stumbling, swearing and tossing balled up socks at one another for the two of them to get dressed, brush their teeth in the communal bathroom and lock their valuables in the provided safe, after which Marius, feeling suddenly lively and somewhat overwhelmed by the ease with which he has slid into his new life, lights them both a cigarette. He has yet to have actually smoked one, and Courfeyrac, proclaiming it a landmark occasion, insists that they smoke another before adjourning to the Dunkin’ Donuts a few blocks away from the hostel.

 

By the time they arrive, Marius is panting and feels mildly nauseous, but Courfeyrac only laughs and promises that the feeling will go away with time and practise.

 

“What do you want?” He brandishes a thick stack of coupons and turns to (loudly) order himself a large iced coffee and three glazed doughnuts. Feeling suddenly painfully self-conscious, Marius does the same and follows, protesting shyly, as Courfeyrac waves his fistful of change off in favour of claiming them a table in the back corner. “You barely have enough money for your bed, Marius,” he says. Though his eyes are crinkled still against the corners of his broad grin, there is a note of seriousness to his tone that falls heavily into the pit of Marius’s stomach.

 

Sinking back into his chair, he takes a long slurp of coffee and nods miserably.

 

“I wasn’t trying to look,” continues Courfeyrac, leaning in and absently stirring the ice cubes in his plastic cup, “but you dropped your wad last night onto the floor by my bed, and I - well, is that everything you have?”

 

Marius nods. “Almost. I think have like seventy or something in the bank.”

 

“Shit. I mean, I can lend you money, if you’re - “

 

“No. I appreciate it and everything, but I don’t want to borrow from my friends, if I can help it.”

 

“And if you can’t help it?”

 

Admitting now that he hadn’t actually thought that far seems painfully silly and childish and a great many things that Marius would rather not be, especially not in Courfeyrac’s eyes. So, he says nothing, opting instead to take a heavy sip of coffee (which he promptly chokes on).

 

“Ok.” Courfeyrac leans back in his chair, straw flapping loosely between his lips. “Well, do you have anything you can sell?”

 

His laptop. But no - he needs that for school. He glances down at himself as he is sprawled across the metal chair, doing a silent inventory. “My watch, I think. Was a gift from Grandad. Er - well, no, that’s it, actually.”

 

Nodding sagely, Courfeyrac finishes off his coffee with a final slurp. “Eat your doughnuts,” he says, “and we can figure all that other stuff out later.”

 

The conversation takes a quick turn down lighter avenues, and Marius finds himself enthralled by his new friend’s extensive knowledge of theatre and current events. His spine curves over the edge of the table on instinct, drawing him closer, his eyes fixated on Courfeyrac’s broad gestures and expressive face. They sit like this for over an hour, Courfeyrac rising every so often to refill their coffees and suggest his favourite doughnuts to Marius, who firmly, albeit politely, refuses.

 

At length, in the middle of a good-natured debate on the merits and deficits of the free market, Courfeyrac pauses once more, takes an excited slurp of his coffee, chokes on the straw and slams his fist into the table with gusto. “I know what we’ll do!”

 

Alarmed, Marius jerks back and nearly topples out of his chair, but Courfeyrac, appearing not to have noticed, rises to his feet and takes their empty cups to the trash bin, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, Marius. Break out the cigarettes. We’re going to have a celebratory smoke!”

 

“But what are we celebrating?” His hands fumble after the crushed packet anyway, drawing two out and lighting them.

 

“My wonderful idea,” answers Courfeyrac simply, taking a puff. He coughs, slams a fist into his own chest to soothe it, and puffs again. Whatever this wonderful idea is, he refuses to say, and Marius, feeling slightly dizzy, is left to his own whirring thoughts on their way back to the hostel, while Courfeyrac taps something feverishly into his phone.

 

They go their separate ways upon arriving at the hostel, Courfeyrac disappearing into their shared room to make phone calls, while Marius takes his laptop into the common room to look up selling prices for his watch on eBay. The warm, comfortable burn in his chest is still there from when Courfeyrac had sparked it during their lunch outing, and he finds himself smiling before he can work out why.

 

* * * * *

 

“Tell me again,” Grantaire can barely breathe from beneath the weight of the picket signs and  laptop bag piled onto his lap, “why I agreed to this.”

 

Enjolras’s voice to his right is muffled by the barricade of cardboard signs and the heavy backpack separating them in the back seat of the taxi, but Grantaire, leaning in, can just make out the snapped response: “Because you stupidly drank half a water bottle full of vodka after a night of drinking yourself into a state of mild alcohol poisoning, and I wasn’t about to take on the responsibility of letting you out on your own to terrorise or vomit all over the general public in the subway all afternoon.”

 

A beat, and the signs shift slightly to reveal a pair of piercing, blue eyes. “And, considering the fact that you were characteristically loud and distracting all through my response papers, and your obnoxious commentary on Swift’s _A Modest Proposal_ , I think it’s safe to say you enjoyed yourself.”

 

“I’m always loud and obnoxious and unhelpful,” says Grantaire cheerfully, but the corners of his mouth tug into a small, self-satisfied smile that he can’t quite bite back.

 

It’s almost a pity - and more than slightly relieving - that their day together is drawing to a close. After the rocky beginning, they had managed to fall into something of a routine in which Enjolras, when he was working himself into a near fit of frustration about one of his many papers, would groan loudly to himself, and Grantaire, who had sufficed himself mainly with loud and inane commentary on the myriad philosophy and political theory books in Enjolras’s library, would spring in with something provocative and silly for Enjolras to latch onto. Their banter, though it lacked much of the heat it usually burned with during their interactions in the Musain or elsewhere, was an easy, almost relaxing distraction. They volleyed words like a shuttlecock between them, rising more than once to get in each other’s faces, or - in Enjolras’s case - to storm into the kitchen for more coffee, which he had (surprisingly) always brought back up to the library in matching mugs for the both of them.

 

Despite his playful manner and mocking tone, however, Grantaire had felt like he was walking on eggshells all day. It was exhausting being himself and hiding himself all at once, enjoying the company, provoking the company, teasing and taunting and barely daring to breathe for fear he would do something at any given moment to destroy everything. He sinks back into his seat as the taxi switches into drive, content to stare out the window while Enjolras phones with Combeferre from behind his backpack-picket-sign-barricade.

 

The brownstones they pass on Enjolras’s street remind Grantaire of his own neighbourhood growing up - or rather, the neighbourhood in which Bahorel had lived, which he had adopted as his own after realising that the other boy had both a television and a Gameboy Advance SP at his disposal. Here, however, the buildings are cleaner and kept up with, and the street is quiet, bordered by lazy, leafy trees and sloping down in a nonchalant way to meet Broadway at an intersection. Not for the first time, he is struck dumb by the sheer _wealth_ Enjolras must possess of, and yet they sit side by side in a taxi packed with cardboard signs protesting government funding cuts to programmes like Medicaid; next to that kind of devotion to humanity, to the fierce, blazing edge to Enjolras’s words, to the fire in his eyes, Grantaire is a rat. A piss-covered rat.

 

And now it’s there again, the feeling he’s been waiting for all day (that had, admittedly, been absent when Enjolras was there). As if his chest has been hollowed out with an ice pick, and his stomach is heavy with the weight of stone eggs (his mother had always said they were laid by the worry bird, and just the thought of _her_ is enough to make his fingers itch for a bottle), and his cheeks tingle and his eyes sting, and he’d rather be anywhere else but in a taxi with Enjolras, sullying Enjolras’s utter purity with his presence.

 

He latches onto that presence though, breathes in the unintelligible hum of Enjolras’s voice, his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, fingers fidgeting idly with the flint of his lighter. The feeling, though it remains, feels more manageable somehow, with Enjolras there. Manageable, but it cuts deeper, aches more, with the proof of his own shortcomings at his side.

 

Dark and growing heavier by the minute, Grantaire’s mood envelopes him in silence and the whir of his own frenzied thoughts for the duration of their ride. As caught up as he is in himself, he barely notices Enjolras announcing their arrival until the door to his left is wrenched open, the pile from his lap removed, and a pair of obnoxiously blue eyes bore into his.

 

“Grantaire?” For a moment, he tricks himself into thinking that Enjolras looks worried, but the other boy blinks, and it is gone. “I said we’re there.”

 

He follows mutely, ignoring the quizzical glance Enjolras sends him over his shoulder as they lug the protest things into their usual corner.

 

“Do you - ” Enjolras scratches the back of his head, his brow set in a firm line, as though he’s suddenly made his mind up about something. “ - want anything to drink?”

 

“What?”

 

“Coffee,” says Enjolras slowly, drawing out the vowels. “I was going to get myself one. Should I bring back two?”

 

Each word drifts as through a fog, crashing around his eardrums. It takes an almost excruciating effort on Grantaire’s behalf to decipher them, and then he is left, standing dumbly, as Enjolras stalks off with a shrug to order himself something to drink and a pastry from Louison, the barista, who waves at Grantaire from behind the counter before turning to steam a cup of milk.

 

He stares numbly back, only vaguely aware of the fact that he is standing still, like an idiot, in the middle of the café while Enjolras shoots him a tight-lipped frown every few seconds. If he were in a normal headspace, he might be able to read those frowns as concerned, or curious, or anything but the explanations his shadowed mind offer up in rapid procession - _disdainful. Disgusted. Annoyed_.

 

Honestly, what is he thinking imposing himself on Enjolras, on his friends in general, on anyone? A small, logical voice in the back of Grantaire’s head reminds him quietly that this is his mood speaking; he knows these moods like the backs of his hands, knows all their lows, the leaden thoughts and the coppery taste in his mouth, the thick, warm molasses feeling in his arms and legs as the muscles melt like spent candle wax over bones that weigh suddenly far too much. He ignores the voice, because his mood is shit and Enjolras is returning with two reusable coffee cups filled to the brim with black coffee (something they were both surprised to discover that they have in common) and a plate full of croissants: “For the others, too,” he explains abruptly with an expectant glance at the empty doorway.

 

They sit in silence for a moment, Enjolras stirring his coffee and pretending like he isn’t staring at Grantaire out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire oblivious to all - to the gaze, to the burn of the boiling coffee against his tongue and lips and the roof of his mouth, the jingle of a bell as the door opens and Courfeyrac bursts in holding a bag of doughnuts and looking far too pleased to be allowed.  

 

“Greetings!” says Courfeyrac loudly, and Enjolras rises with a small smile, leaving an imprint on the leather sofa where he had been perched beside Grantaire. Courfeyrac, narrowing his eyes briefly as he glances between them, slides into the chair across from Grantaire with a practised ease. “I come bearing doughnuts,” he carries on, and then in hushed tones: “And, I need your help.”

 

At that moment, the door bursts open again, and Combeferre enters behind an exuberant Joly and Bossuet, who is, for some reason, soaked from head to foot.

 

“Fire hydrant in front of my building exploded!” he calls cheerfully at Enjolras’s inquiry.

 

Courfeyrac, taking advantage of the momentary distraction, taps Grantaire’s elbow impatiently. “I need your help,” he says again, his tone flattening.

 

Grantaire frowns. “Sorry - uh, what with?”

 

“You’ve been homeless before.”

 

It’s enough to break the downward spiral into numbness and the confines of his own brain, if only for a moment. Jerking into an upright position, Grantaire glances quickly over Courfeyrac’s shoulder to make sure no one else is listening before hissing, “Don’t say that out loud, what the fuck - ”

 

“But you have,” continues Courfeyrac, unperturbed. “And I don’t know what you have against anyone else knowing, or I should say, against _Enjolras_ knowing, considering he already knows that you live in a shithole in Chinatown and the rest of us know you were,” (he lowers his voice) “homeless, because that’s how you met Feuilly and, by extension, Bossuet.”

 

“What do you need my help with?”

 

Sighing, Courfeyrac leans across the table, his warm, brown eyes fixed steadily on Grantaire’s, unblinking and uncharacteristically sober. “Marius,” he begins, and Grantaire cuts him off with a snort.

 

“Sorry, but - your communist roommate?”

 

“Marius is staying with me, because he left his grandfather’s, and he won’t have enough to cover the room in, like, eight days. Eight if he’s lucky. And he won’t borrow anything. I don’t know what to do, but then I remembered when I met you, you were staying at the Gorbor - ”

 

“Gorbeau House,” finishes Grantaire miserably, taking a sip of his coffee. With a pang of annoyance that Courfeyrac honestly hasn’t deserved, he realises that it’s gone cold.

 

“That’s the one!” Flushing with excitement, the brown-haired boy reels back, crashing into Enjolras, who has wandered over with his half-empty coffee cup and a frown creasing the curves of his face into something almost angular. Gulping down the lump that settles in his throat upon the the blond’s arrival, Grantaire shakes his head.

 

“It’s nothing,” he says quickly.

 

At the same time, Courfeyrac: “It’s a shelter, right?”

 

“No!”

 

Enjolras, settling back into the booth, flicks his gaze between them curiously. “What’s a shelter?”

 

“Nothing!” exclaims Grantaire in tandem with Courfeyrac, who offers brightly, “The Gorbeau House.”

 

“We’re not talking about this right now.” Avoiding the penetrating blue eyes to his left and the soft brown ones directly across from him, he downs the remainder of his coffee and nudges the empty cup in Enjolras’s direction. “Thanks for the coffee and for letting me annoy you all day.”

 

Enjolras looks torn, raises his hand for a moment as though to lay it across Grantaire’s and keep him rooted to the spot before licking his lips and allowing it to fall back into his lap as Courfeyrac worries his bottom lip with his thumb.

 

“It was fine,” he says finally, his expression painfully earnest, and Grantaire has to go now, because this is crossing all the boundaries of realism and expectation and Things He Can Handle.

 

He nods, once, shrugging out of Courfeyrac’s hold on the hem of his freshly washed t-shirt, his back stiffening in response to the calls from Joly and Bossuet as he passes by on his way to the door.

 

“I’m sorry!” shouts Courfeyrac, scrambling to his feet, but Grantaire is already on the sidewalk outside, his feet leading him down the street he knows so well from nights spent stumbling home in a haze of drunkenness or a high. It’s not the first time he’s skipped out on meetings during or after the onset of a grey phase, but it’s the first time he’s done so after spending the day with Enjolras, after Enjolras nearly finding out what a selfish, useless bastard he is and has always been (because that is all that could possibly come of telling that story), and he’s probably upset Courfeyrac, who will think it was his fault, and he’s been an asshole in general and his feet hurt and his stomach feels queasy, and he realises far too late how much he had wanted to eat one of those croissants Enjolras had bought for them all.

 

He stops at the liquor store next to his building for a six-pack and a handle of cheap whisky, where the wizened Chinese man whose name he has never learnt, but who knows his drinking habits and his address and the way his voice tends to carry when he’s been drinking too much, too quickly, greets him with a curt nod. Conversations have never been their thing, but they lock eyes for a moment, the old man tilting his head to the side as if to inquire, ‘really necessary?’ Grantaire nods and shoves a crumpled twenty across the counter.

 

“Have a nice evening.”

 

Now his feet are back in charge, taking the stairs in twos, pounding across the uneven floorboards and stomping impatiently as his hands fumble with the bottle and the cans and the keys in his pocket.

 

The door opens with a creak, and he enters, feeling suddenly impossibly thirsty (an entire day without drinknig - Jesus _fuck_ ).

 

“I was wondering when you’d be coming round.”

 

His insides go cold, one by one, freezing up and shattering against his ribcage, or maybe that’s just the pound of his heart.

 

“Well, don’t just stand there.” Montparnasse tosses him a shit-eating grin from his lazy sprawl across the threadbare sofa, his feet propped up on the packing crate Grantaire had stolen from one of the fish markets down the street and uses as a coffee table. “I told Ponine here - ” He jerks his thumb at a slight, skinny creature at his side (the straps of her bra contrast sharply against her white t-shirt, despite her conspicuous lack of breasts, and she is young and painted like a chonga and he is far, far, far to sober for this). “ - that you always have something to drink. And I have something for you.”

 

Montparnasse snorts at his reluctant shuffle towards the sofa and shoves the girl aside to make room for them all. His hard, brown eyes gleam with something unreadable, and Grantaire had forgotten how creepy those eyes are, especially against those high cheekbones and the plump lips that curl into a terrifying smirk as he reaches across the girl - who has yet to say anything - to withdraw a plastic trash bag from her purse.

 

“Something for me,” he drawls, opening his beer, “and something for you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Meetings, Junkies and Walkie-Talkies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac gets the help he needs, Éponine is 24601% done with junkies, and Enjolras and Combeferre have a bedtime routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read and left feedback of some sort! You're all so amazing. I'm sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but the action picks up next chapter, so I wanted to get a good Enjolras/Combeferre moment in there before it's too late!  
> As always, feedback is majorly appreciated.

Courfeyrac’s hand is on his elbow before he can cross the threshold into the café, leading him to a table in the back, a surprising distance away from where the rest of their friends are gathered in their usual corner.

 

“I need your help,” he says almost immediately upon sitting down, his brown eyes wide and disconcertingly serious.

 

His initial instinct is to roll his eyes and ask whose older brother his friend has managed to piss off this time, but everything about this interaction is so uncharacteristically solemn and subdued, so not Courfeyrac, that it stops him in his tracks. Settling for a shrug, he crosses his arms over his chest and nods.

 

“I tried to ask Grantaire,” explains Courfeyrac hastily, holding his hands up, as though to fend off a possible attack, “but I think I upset him, and he ran off.” He caters to the troubled frown that worries his lips for the briefest of moments before nodding again, hands spread across the table towards Feuilly in obsecration.

 

“What exactly did you ask him?”

 

If Grantaire has said no and ran off ( _ran off_ , he repeats to himself, mentally frowning), Courfeyrac’s request must be either quite serious or fairly political in nature.

 

To his credit, Courfeyrac does manage to look mildly regretful as he sighs and settles against the leather backing of the booth. “I honestly didn’t know it was such a sensitive subject for him.”

 

“Which subject, exactly?”

 

Feuilly can think of a handful that might spark such a reaction; none of them can abate the sinking feeling in his stomach as Courfeyrac shakes his head again helplessly, hands clasped.

 

“Marius needs help,” he says slowly. “He’s going to be broke in, like, eight days, and he won’t let me pay for his bed, so they’ll kick him out.”

 

The rough outline of an inkling is beginning to dawn on him; he can imagine the conversation taking place between a pair of earnest brown eyes and red-rimmed blue ones and presses a finger against his temple in exasperation. “So,” cuts in Feuilly, “you asked Grantaire for information or help finding your soon-to-be homeless roommate a place to stay - Gorbeau House?”

 

Courfeyrac’s nod is one of pure relief.

 

“Grantaire told you to shut the fuck up and ran away before anyone could ask further, and you feel guilty - but you shouldn’t, because he really is just overly sensitive about all this - and you still need information and probably my help getting - Marius? right, thought so - a bed there.” He rubs his temples as Courfeyrac leans back in, the sombre hollows in his cheeks rounding back out with his wide grin. “First off, don’t worry about Grantaire, man. He’s just... ” A baby. Conflicted. Making an epic tragedy of a melodrama. Shaking his head, he leans back. “I don’t even know. Ashamed, I guess.”

 

Though, that’s not really it, because they both had their time for shame. They had lived out their shame together over their styrofoam trays of free lunch in the high school cafeteria, in the Goodwill in Brooklyn that sold clothes for a dollar per pound, had got over it at some point. After their high school graduation, they had even managed to reverse the situation - Feuilly winning a Section 8 lottery on a studio far uptown, Grantaire taking up residence in the little flat in Chinatown that the creep Montparnasse had offered him suspiciously cheaply.

 

Making a mental note to call Grantaire as soon as this conversation ends, he licks his lips and ploughs on, “Secondly, I have a few hours between shifts this coming Wednesday. I can call ahead tomorrow and see if they have anything available. Marius will need to go in for an interview then, hopefully, if they have time, on Wednesday, and then he’ll be put on the waiting list.” At Courfeyrac’s wilted expression, he tacks on hastily: “But, since the situation is so urgent, he’ll probably be bumped up! Don’t worry, man. I can’t make any promises, but I got my place there within days, and Grantaire within hours, because they had an opening. And if worse comes to worse, he can sleep on my couch until they have something for him. He won’t end up on the streets.”

 

The three or so odd hours he’ll be giving up for this are worth Courfeyrac’s cheek-splitting smile and the warm, tight hug he finds himself enveloped in.

 

“Thank you,” rumbles Courfeyrac’s voice from the crook of his neck, and Feuilly finds himself nodding at the blur of brown curls and white t-shirt as they cut across the room. He stops to buy himself a coffee and beg a cigarette off of Bahorel before stepping outside.

 

Grantaire’s phone goes straight to voicemail three times before Feuilly, lighting his cigarette with a frustrated groan, gives up. Not that it’s terribly unusual behaviour for Grantaire, who usually forgets he possesses a phone at all until he gets drunk, sits on it, texts as many people as his grimy, little fingers can click on, regrets doing so, tosses the phone at the wall and promptly forgets that he has one again, repeat ad nauseam.

 

It is frustrating, however, because they haven’t spoken properly in weeks, and Grantaire had looked pale and tired at Enjolras’ house every time Feuilly had chanced a trip into the kitchen for something to drink. It makes him uncomfortable, because Joly and Bossuet - probably the only two of their group of friends able to keep regular contact (and that at least partly likely to do with Bossuet’s drinking habits, which is hardly comforting) - have hinted at heavy storm clouds in Grantairland, and because he knows his friend, having lived with him, knows the ease with which he spirals out of control when there is no one there to keep an eye on him (or regardless).

 

There’s nothing to be done for it now, though. Stubbing out his cigarette on a fire hydrant, he shoulders his way back through the door and into a seat on the booth beside Bahorel.

 

“Double shifts again?” hisses Bahorel, clapping him on the shoulder. “You look like death.”

 

“Rent week next week.”

 

Tsking sympathetically, he shoves a plastic cup full of iced coffee across the table. “Got you one, too.”

 

It’s not charity, thinks Feuilly, because it’s from Bahorel, and they’re probably equal for all the times he’s had to come and bail him out of a tight spot with the police after a protest. Not that’s he’s counting. He takes a miniscule sip.

 

Two tables down, Enjolras and Courfeyrac argue fervently over a stack of papers they’ve spread out between them. Energetic and loud as ever, Courfeyrac jams his fingers at something he doesn’t like about the text, while Enjolras, his eyes glittering unusually dangerously, shakes his head firmly. Combeferre, well-versed in the volatility of their political discussions, watches with polite interest as Courfeyrac crumples one of the papers and lobs it across the café.

 

Beside them, rotating their drinks amongst them, Joly, Bossuet and Jehan exchange quips about the last protest they’d been involved in - a heftier number that had landed Bossuet in the hospital with six stitches to his eyebrow and seen Jehan in police custody for about an hour before he was released without charges; Bahorel perks up at that:

 

“There wouldn’t have been any need for the police to involve themselves if they’d kept those damn Westboro protesters behind the yellow tape,” he breaks in loudly.

 

“Yes, well,” smirking, Bossuet picks at the collar of his threadbare T-shirt, “you can’t have expected them to act otherwise. Someone needs to get involved before people like you start tearing up fire hydrants, or something - ”

 

“I’d tear up fire hydrants from Harlem to the financial district if it got rid of the Westboro Baptist Church.”

 

Joly, rubbing at his eye, enters the conversation with a small cough. “They really are awful - ”

 

“All churches should keep their distance from gay rights’ protests, as a rule.”

 

“I’m hardly religious, but it’s not the churches themselves that are the problem,” counters Enjolras from his table. “You know that - ”

 

“The problem with churches,” says Bahorel, “is that they think they have a right to tell you how to live. If I want to fall in love with a guy, I don’t need their permission for it. So, whether they’re for it or against it, doesn’t matter to me. They don’t belong at a protest.”

 

No one has a counter-argument to that, so they allow the discussion to drift on to other topics.

 

* * *

 

Éponine is bored. What had been pitched to her a short business visit and a chance to score free beer has stretched itself into a full hour and a half of shuffling through this loser’s messy studio, browsing through his few, dilapidated belongings while Montparnasse and said loser occupy themselves with a hushed conversation over the baggie of powder Montparnasse has brought with him.

 

She watches from the bathroom as the grungy, skinny kid Montparnasse had called “Big R” springs up to fetch a spoon from a drawer in his kitchenette and rolls her eyes. Another stupid junkie. Her eyes follow his jerky movements as he tips powder onto the spoon and cooks up, follow the stretch of Montparnasse’s crocodile grin, the flutter of his hands withdrawing something clunky and hard and wrapped in a trash bag from the depths of her purse, which he slides under the couch with one foot, the other tapping out a jaunty rhythm on the packing crate that appears to double for a coffee table in this shithole.

 

Sighing, she turns again to peer critically at the overly made-up face in the mirror, wrinkling her eyes with their thick liner, pursing her glossed lips. Nothing special, but better, probably, with all the makeup.

 

“Ponine,” says Montparnasse suddenly; she jerks around in the direction from which his voice had come, narrowing her eyes as he tightens a medical tourniquet and waves at her with the prepared syringe.

 

“What?”

 

“Come here.”

 

She turns to the mirror for a final, disparaging glare, glances again at the scene on the couch, at the half-eaten pizza she’d confiscated from the fridge and planned on eating for dinner if this was going to take much longer, allows her eyes to flicker back to the couch.

 

‘Here’ is where Montparnasse sits, feet on the packing crate, counting out a wad of cash. ‘Here’ is where the scrawny, tired-looking junkie kid slumps in a splay of spidery limbs and tangled, black curls, his eyes heavily lidded and glazed in ecstasy. Swallowing, she steps over his skinny legs and falls onto her knees on the edge of the couch to hover over Montparnasse.

 

“What?” she repeats.

 

His grin is almost terrifying, plump lips twisted, eyes reduced to glittering slits on his handsome face; she stumbles to her feet again, wincing as the backs of her knees collide with the packing crate.

 

“You’ve been inspecting the place.” He holds out another clunky, hard something wrapped in a black trash bag. “I’ve got the first one taken care of. Find a good spot for this. Somewhere out of the way.”

 

Her assumptions about the nature of this visit had been correct, then. This isn’t just a charity call to a broke kid who looks like he’s been having a bad day every day of the week for the past five years. She squeezes through the bag, fingers wrapping round the object inside, and stalks off to the kitchenette.

 

The junkie kid - Big R, or whatever he’s called (she can’t help but roll her eyes at that) - calls out after her.

 

“Don’t put anything in the drawers. The hot plates are built in; they heat the drawers up, and everything will explode.”

 

Ignoring him, she wrenches open the lopsided door of a cabinet, drops the gun into a back corner, and slams the door again. Montparnasse smirks at her from beneath heavily lidded eyes as she returns to the couch, tugs her onto his lap. She squirms.

 

“Grab all the beers you want, and then we’re going.”

 

Thank God. Her skin prickles beneath the gaze of the skinny junkie kid (she refuses to engage in this Big R stupidity), but he’s too lost in his ecstasy to bother raising a protest as she claws through the plastic netting connecting the cans and stuffs three into her purse along with a full bottle of cheap vodka.

 

“Take care,” says Montparnasse with a half-nod. She isn’t able to catch the response before the door slams, Montparnasse’s hand settling around her elbow. “Let’s get monumentally drunk.”

 

She has to roll her eyes at his pretension, but the idea sounds tempting enough.

 

* * *

 

“Something is wrong,” repeats Combeferre for the second time as he drops onto the couch beside Enjolras.

 

He doesn’t say, ‘you’ve looked more miserable than I’ve seen you in months ever since the Musain’. He doesn’t ask what happened, nor does he try and guess. Thirteen years of close friendship have taught him that gentle prodding and biding his time are the best solutions when it comes to Enjolras’ inexplicable changes of mood.

 

Running a hand roughly through his hair, Enjolras groans and shrugs. “I don’t understand what happened,” he says finally. From the way that his lips press together in the slightest of frowns, his eyes all but burning holes into the decorative rug at his feet, Combeferre senses that there is something more to it than he’s letting on.

 

He doesn’t ask what that something more is, merely takes a sip from one of the mugs of coffee he’d brought up from the kitchen and waits.

 

At length, Enjolras, reaching for his own mug, says softly, “It was actually a good day.”

 

“I was wondering.”

 

“He wasn’t drunk. He didn’t smell. He wasn’t high. He was as obnoxious as ever, and he doesn’t see the point in anything, and that’s all very frustrating, but - ”

 

“But, it was a good day, anyway,” finishes Combeferre simply. Looking mildly unsure of himself, Enjolras nods.

 

“He annoyed me, but he was amusing, too.” He pauses, then adds with a touch of surprise, “He’s extremely intelligent. I never really bothered to listen to him when he was rambling before, partly because he was just disrupting, and partly because he’s rude and vulgar and inappropriate, and he speaks so quickly and never stays on one point long enough to hold your attention; it’s all this long, tangled mass of historical references and citations and art and current events, and it’s incredibly frustrating. It’s like he hasn’t got a single idea of his own, except that he doesn’t believe in anything, but even that feels forced.”

 

“Hm,” agrees Combeferre.

 

“He’s like this walking collection of plagiarisms; he just flips to the right page depending on the situation, and he does it so quickly, you barely notice it. I spent the entire day with him, and I feel like I’ve never met him before in my life.”

 

It’s actually a fairly accurate description of Grantaire, which only helps to cement the sense of foreboding brewing in the pit of his stomach as his eyes scan Enjolras’ tense jaw and narrowed eyes. They are rapidly approaching the border into uncharted territory; he’s not entirely sure if he is capable of navigating both himself and Enjolras through it.

 

“And then,” Enjolras insists, his eyes flickering across Combeferre’s carefully neutral expression with the urgency of a child searching for its mother in a crowd, “once he thought he was alone and didn’t have to perform for me anymore, it was like he wasn’t there at all. He just sat there and looked miserable and didn’t hear anything I said to him. I was worried I might have to carry him out of the taxi.”

 

“That made you nervous.”

 

It’s not a question, but Enjolras shakes his head regardless. “No - I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how I could know someone for three years without knowing them. I know nothing about him, Combeferre.”

 

Another truth. Nudging his glasses up off the bridge of his nose so that he can rub at his eyes, Combeferre makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat; luckily, Enjolras seems to be on a roll.

 

He swipes a hand through his hair again, groaning in frustration. “What do we know about Grantaire?” They are, he realises, sitting nearly nose-to-nose, Enjolras’ eyes burning with a fervency usually reserved for his social justice campaigns as he peers into Combeferre’s own. “I’ve seen him at meetings every week for three years. I know that he was drunk at nearly every single one of those meetings, if not all - or high. I know that he was on cocaine last week, and there is a burnt spoon on his sofa that indicates heroin use.”

 

This is a shock to Combeferre, who blinks rapidly for a moment behind his glasses.

 

“Really?” It’s actually not surprising that Grantaire takes hard drugs. If he hadn’t started yet, it would only have been a matter of time. Cocaine he could almost expect, Combeferre reasons. Hardly necessary, considering Grantaire’s already near-manic presence at most of their meetings, but also not unexpected. Heroin, however, is an entirely different, altogether frightening and highly dangerous story.

 

“Yes, but that’s not the point. The point is I spent an entire day with someone, and all I know about him is that he’s a terrible study companion, has no personal opinions on anything, other than that nothing is worth his time - I don’t know where he’s from or who his family are. I don’t know how he existed before he started showing up at our meetings. I don’t know why he even bothers coming to those, and I don’t know why he came today if he was just going to run off before we could even get started.”

 

The gaze that Enjolras fixes on him is one of terrifying intensity. Combeferre knows that gaze. It’s the one Enjolras wore when he’d decided they were running away from home to become street urchins, aged eight. It’s identical to the one he’d pinned on his father upon finding his emails to another woman. A muddled mass of confusion, anger, frustration and anxiety that only serves to cool the colour of his irises to an icy blue-grey that would not have looked so very out-of-place, Combeferre cannot help but think, on a serial killer.

 

“I looked up this Gorbeau House place,” says Enjolras, waving a dismissive hand in the direction of his discarded laptop. At Combeferre’s bemused silence, he ploughs on, “It’s a charity run by some old philanthropist in the Bronx. A homeless shelter, mostly for teenagers who can’t live with their parents for whatever reason.”

 

They have reached the Point of this conversation. Falling against the back of the couch in relief, Combeferre scratches his head and says carefully, “You want to know what all of this has to do with Grantaire and why he ran off today.” Enjolras nods. “And because you are you and can’t ask like a normal person, you had to lead me through this elaborate set-up in the hopes I’d eventually cut you off and unwittingly provide you with the information you’re after.” Another nod.

 

Combeferre sighs. “The saddest part is, that wasn’t even intelligent deduction on my part. You’re really that predictable.”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

“I don’t know that much,” he admits, frowning.

 

Enjolras straightens from his slump against a pile of overstuffed cushions. “But you know something,” he prods.

 

“Not much more than you do? I mean, you know Feuilly’s story.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Well, same basic principle. I think they lived together at that Gorbeau shelter for a few years. At any rate, it’s how they met, and how Grantaire ended up at our meetings.”

 

“But - ”

 

“I don’t know,” says Combeferre abruptly. “I have no idea why, and Grantaire doesn’t let anyone talk about it.”

 

For a moment, it seems as though Enjolras might have lost interest. Stretching broadly, he reaches for his discarded laptop and has just refreshed the BBC World News when he turns again, his expression carefully neutral, and asks, “But, if you know it - and I’d assume everyone else does - why didn’t anyone ever tell me?”

 

It takes a moment for Combeferre to gather his thoughts for a response. “I’m going to assume it was because Grantaire is embarrassed and doesn’t want you to know.”

 

“Stupid of him,” snaps Enjolras, then softens. He bites his lip as his gaze returns to the screen of his laptop, refreshes the page again. “He should know better than to think I’d judge him for something like that.”

 

Their conversation crumbles and dissolves into silence after that, but it’s a comfortable, familiar silence that envelops them like a well-worn coat. Enjolras, his feet jammed in the space between Combeferre’s backside and the sofa seat, turns his laptop screen every so often to share something he finds interesting or amusing, at which Combeferre, glancing up patiently from his anatomy textbook, nods and hums in agreement. They sit like this well into the evening, until the chiming of the mantel clock and the abrupt silence of the street outside signal for them to go to bed.

 

They part at the landing before the library door, Enjolras already half-way up the stairs to his floor, Combeferre leaning against the bathroom door when he says, “Knock if you need anything.”

 

“You, too.”

 

Just as they do every night. He avoids his reflection in the mirror as he brushes his teeth; something about the foam that tends to pool at the corners of his mouth and dribble down his chin has always made him uncomfortable. Upstairs, Enjolras is probably going through the same routine, though he enjoys the foam, stands for a moment, watching himself in the mirror, enjoying the tingling sensation on his chin from the cool-mint. They’ve brushed their teeth together often enough for Combeferre to know this.

 

He yawns as he slides between the obnoxiously high thread count sheets Enjolras’ father had stocked the house with when he’d lived there years ago, his hands fumbling for the walkie-talkie on the nightstand table.

 

It blinks briefly.

 

“‘Night, Dennis,” crackles Enjolras’ voice through the line, thick with sleep.

 

Turning onto his side, Combeferre holds the cool plastic to his cheek, presses the button. “Night. Sleep well.”

 

“You, too.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“See you tomorrow.”

 

“Yes.”

  



End file.
